


The Wig

by Violet_Jones



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Established Relationship, Ficlet, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, Humor, M/M, POV Mickey, Wigs, theater nerd!Ian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-04 17:40:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10284731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violet_Jones/pseuds/Violet_Jones
Summary: Mickey & Ian and the dirty black wig of doom.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [koganphrancis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/koganphrancis/gifts).



> Look, I didn't know that it was Kate's b-day until today, so I wrote this little prezzie for her in a handful of hours. Suffice it to say, I didn't do much editing and this is super silly and on the fly. Inspired by recent shit. Lol. I hope you enjoy it nonetheless!
> 
> HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KATE!!!! ❤❤❤

It all started with fucking _Halloween_ , of all things that were unholy and obnoxious to one Mickey A. Milkovich. Not the movie, either, because the movie he was actually down for. Horror was his favorite genre by far, and even though some of that 70s shit looked cheesy and fake as hell to the modern niche horror fan, you still had to give credit to the flicks that spawned the whole phenomenon.

No, it was the actual holiday.

Mickey had despised Halloween since he was a kid, and he was stalwart in his intentions to maintain that disdain far into whatever years he had left on this earth. Yet somehow, he’d managed to saddle himself with a boyfriend (already weird and unexpected in and of itself) who’d grown up doing _theater_. An appalled shudder of judgment rippled through his body just thinking about it. Theater kids _more_ than loved Halloween; it was like a holy day of reverence in celebration of human achievement in costuming and make-up.

He would never for the life of him figure out how someone as hot as Ian Gallagher could have been such a giant nerd just a couple years ago, back in high school. He was tall and thin, but well-defined, with a face that people liked to do double-takes to, because it was _that_ attractive. Sure, Ian wasn’t very sophisticated, but that was one of the things Mickey liked most about him. Still, he was charming and outgoing in a way that had made Mickey assume he’d been captain of the basketball team or some shit, but no, he’d seen the photographic evidence of his Dark Days of Dorkdom. He’d also rolled his eyes so many times at the overenthusiastic way Ian would tell stories about all the geek-ass shit he got up to with his fellow cast and crew, and all of their ‘hilarious’ hijinks during productions, he almost gave himself an aneurysm.

They were hanging out in Ian’s new dorm room, the semester having only recently started, when he brought it up the first time. They’d kinda sorta shacked up together temporarily over the Summer and it was weird being apart again, which had Mickey pretty disconcerted. He’d been putting on a big show, acting like he couldn’t wait for them to have their separate spaces again, and Ian was cool about it, also acting like it was no big deal. However, there was an unspoken kind of understanding between them that their feelings already went deeper than they’d ever dared to speak aloud up to that point. Mickey was terrified of their deepening intimacy, yet he could also see that Ian was equally scared in his own way. Mickey was more observant than people gave him credit for.

He knew it was right this way, though; both him actually being with Ian, and them living apart for now. He was fully aware that they were way too young to try and get serious so quickly. They hadn’t even known each other a year yet, after all. Hence, Mickey’s complete unawareness of Ian’s sick, twisted Halloween kink.

“So. . . It’s September. . .” Ian began, as he picked up stuff around his room.

Ian was tidy and clean, which had been pretty damn helpful while he was sharing space with Mickey, because left to his own devices, the latter had all the hygienic skills of a mildly house-broken puppy, amplified by the zero fucks he had to give. It was one of the key differences in their middle class versus shitty class upbringings. Ian had been taught how to take care of day-to-day tedious tasks like a responsible adult-in-training, instilling a sense of value in completing mundane chores. Mickey had been in charge of bills around his house, and nothing else. If anyone ever halfway did anything to keep their house from degenerating into a literal heap of garbage, it had been his sister. He didn’t think it was like a sexist thing, it was just that she’d always been the only one to actually care enough to put in minimal effort. Her room was the one place in the house that didn’t have that ‘ _layer of grime_ ’ feeling to it, anyway. Plus, she kept the tub clean from the scourge of rogue pubes, which Mickey probably owed her big time for, because that was like his achilles heel. He even paid more money than he could reasonably afford to live in dorms with private bathrooms, so that he didn’t have to subject himself to the horrors of public showering. He may go down as the only gay man in history to avoid such potential earthly delights, but there it was. That was how strongly he felt about other people’s pubes.

“You just realizin’ that, numbnuts? It’s been September for over two weeks now,” replied Mickey.

“Fuck off, I mentioned it cuz Halloween is like six weeks away. Need to start figuring out what I’m gonna be this year.” He eyed Mickey in an overly-casual way, as if he couldn’t see right through the ‘what _I’m_ gonna be’ wording.

Mickey threw the magazine he was casually perusing on the floor and barked, “Oh, hell no! Do whatever you want, firecrotch, but I ain’t dressin’ up for some shitty college party just cuz of some dumbass, rich-kid, childhood tradition that you should’a gotten over when you hit puberty.”

Ian’s big, dumb, pretty mouth fell open and his blue-green eyes got wide as they flashed with indignation. “The hell is _wrong_ with you? Half the point is that it’s a night where you get to be kinda childlike again. It’s not a _rich kid_ thing. Just cuz I’m not South Side, doesn’t mean I had a bunch of extra money, I told you that. I always made my own costumes. Still do. That’s like the most fun part.”

“Yeah, well, you can hang out with your fuckin’ friends that night. Not interested.”

Ian let out a heavy sigh, before biting out a terse and pointed-sounding, “ _Fine_.”

In the couple weeks leading up to the event, Ian had spent most of his free time pent up in his room making his elaborate-ass costume, which had cut his time with Mickey down a lot. They rarely saw one another unless Mickey just sat around Ian’s room, amusing himself while his boyfriend worked. He wasn’t all that keen on the experience really, because he sucked at idle chatter, so he’d mainly just stayed in his own room and waited it out.

He remained true to his word, regardless of any poorly disguised moping from Ian, and hadn’t been swayed to join Ian in celebrating Halloween over what turned out to be not only one night, but an entire weekend. Ian had pretended like he didn’t mind, but the way things were strained for a while afterward proved otherwise, and Mickey had ended up having to do a lot of groveling without ever directly addressing the reason _why_ he would be doing such an embarrassing, desperate thing in the first place.

On top of everything else, Ian hadn’t even shown him any pictures of him all dressed up in the costume once he was done, all too aware that Mickey would just laugh and make fun of him for it. He definitely wouldn’t let him see him in full make-up either.

Mickey felt worse and worse about it the more random friends, acquaintances, and total strangers-to-Mickey stopped them on or around campus throughout the following week and beyond, talking about how epic Ian had looked in his get-up. He’d gone as Edward Scissorhands, and fashioned an entire body suit using cloth and electrical tape and all kinds of other shit, like metal rings, and spray-painted cardboard for his scissor gloves. One of his friends was a make-up artist in training, and she’d no doubt done wonders to make him look like a gaunt weirdo covered in facial scars. And then there was the fucking hair.

The black stringy piece of crap that Ian and his friend had teased out into an unruly Robert Smith mess.

The origin of the Wig of Doom.

  


* * *

  


_One Year Later_

  


“Miiiickeeeey. . .”

“No.”

“Miiiiiiickeeeeeeeeey. . .”

“Jesus, NO!”

“Miiiickeee-eee-eeeey. . .” Ian’s voice seemed to get more and more aggravatingly whiny and sing-songy with every blunt rebuff espoused.

“Bellyachin’ ain’t attractive, Gallagher. Not gonna sway my ass.”

Ian flipped onto his stomach, resting half his body against Mickey’s left side, leaning his chin against his chest and watching as he exhaled smoke in rings above his head.

“You really gonna do me that dirty _again_ this year? Don’t I mean more to you now than I did this time 12 months ago?” Ian accentuated his measured argument by lightly skimming his free hand over Mickey’s naked torso, a subtle sheen of sweat still gracing his skin from their most recent round of sex.

“It’s not about doin’ you dirty, Ian. I’m just not into all that shit. What’s the big fuckin’ deal for you to have a thing that doesn’t involve my participation? You’re a big boy, and there’s plenty of other shit you do on your own, without my assistance or input.”

Mickey passed him the joint. Ian accepted it with a roll of his eyes toward the neon day-glo stars he pasted to his ceiling a few days prior.

“Thank you, Mr. Sound Logic. I realize I can do shit on my own. I always fucking do, don’t I? I’m not some needy, codependent asshole, so don’t act like I am. The reason I want you to give in and do this one thing with me, _for_ me, is that it’s so much fun. Excuse me if I wanna do all my most fun shit with _your_ grouchy, no good, killjoy ass, cuz I happen to fucking love you.” He took a deep drag of weed, before adding, “Asshole.”

They lied in silence for a while, passing the joint back and forth, before Ian spoke again. “I know your parents never took you trick-or-treating or anything. Fuckin’ sucks, and I hate them for that, and a lot of other things, but this could be a new tradition for you. For _us_. I’ll help you make up for the years I know you spent being jealous of other kids getting to do that kind of normal kid shit you didn’t. It’s _fun_ , Mick. What’s wrong with fun?”

Mickey threw his free arm up in the air, “Christ! I had no idea you had this level of guilt-trip in you. Where the hell did you get that from? And can you please give it the fuck back?”

Ian eyed him stonily, penetrating Mickey’s very core with the power of his malevolent expression. He was obviously just faking anger to mask his stupid hurt feelings, but whatever.

Mickey closed his eyes and exhaled in a put-upon way. “I ain’t wearin’ a fuckin’ costume.”

Ian bounced himself up onto his knees, throwing the covers off their lower halves and onto the floor as he clapped excitedly, and also said, “Yaaaaayyy!”

Mickey made a completely disgusted stinkface at him and pushed Ian’s face away as his lips approached to kiss him. “Shut the fuck up _right_ now, or it’s all off, I swear to god.”

Ian wasn’t deterred, kissing him all over his chest. “Aw, Mick!” he said between kisses, “You’re so good to me!”

Soon he was merely a needy mess rutting drily against Mickey’s thigh to work himself up to round three.

“Don’t ever do that ‘yay’ thing ever again, Ian, I’m dead serious,” Mickey emphasized, as Ian engulfed his cock with his mouth minutes later.

The next few weeks had included a barrage of annoying attempts by Ian to force Mickey into a costume for the stupid Halloween shit he’d agreed to partake in. The idea he’d really latched onto for some reason unbeknownst to Mickey was that he should go as The Winter Soldier.

“I have that wig from last year that you could use. I washed all the crazy hair product out of it before. It’d be kinda simple. We can just make you like a cool robot arm thingie, or something.”

“Hell fucking no! I ain’t goin’ as some dork-ass Marvel universe character. I don’t even give two shits about Captain America.”

“Yeah, and you don’t even give two shits about Halloween, either, so why do you even care what you go as? Just let me fucking make something for you.”

“Oh please, you tryin’ to go as the Cap or somethin’? We doin’ a couples theme? That’s so fuckin’ lame, dude.”

Ian sighed loudly. “I told you, I’m going as Hedwig this year.”

Mickey groaned. “Yeah, thanks for savin’ your big fuckin’ drag debut for the year you get me roped into all this crap, by the way. Really fuckin’ appreciate that.”

“Bitch, I did drag in high school. We put on Rocky Horror one time.”

“ _Jesus_ ,” responded Mickey, wiping a hand over his face. “Well, I definitely ain’t wearin’ a damn dress. Just think of somethin’ generic. I just wanna be like a dude with a seedy mustache or somethin’.”

Ian’s face lit up, “Ooh! You could go as like a flasher! You could have a fake dick taped to your pants crotch, get an overcoat, then throw on the wig, the mustache, a gross beanie. . . it’d be perfect!”

Mickey cringed and grabbed the bridge of his nose. “Fuck off, Gallagher. I feel like you don’t even know me at all, right now. I ain’t one of your straight, frat guy, douchebag friends who goes around the party pullin’ the questionably funny dick joke pranks. Plus, you know how much I hate fake dick.” He shook his head. “Fuckin’ honestly. . .”

In the end, Mickey had gone as a hobo. Ian even made him one of those little a cartoon sticks from the Looney Toons, with the bandana full of possessions tied to the end. He’d worn the gross old wig, had Ian’s friend glue a buncha gross fake hair to his face, and thrown on some goodwill shit that was still way better than most of his own clothes had been growing up. That was that.

Hobo Mickey became a _thing_. . .

A thing that Ian used to fuck with him, and it spun out of control more and more as time wore on.

Most of the time, Mickey would awaken to find the wig either on his own head, or being worn by an appliance or assemblage of objects in his immediate vicinity, or somewhere he was going to see it before he left the house, could be a lamp, a stack of books, or any number of juvenile decorative figurines. Every single time, Mickey would toss the wretched thing right into the garbage. At some point, Ian would fish it out of the bin, dust it off, and put it back in his ‘hiding spot,’ which was really just an empty shoebox at the top of the closet whose presence Mickey was fully aware of.

Then there were the times when Ian himself would be wearing the wig. Occasionally, it would be first thing in the morning, and those times were the worst. Ian liked acting after all, and he was decent at it. If he arose in the morning anytime before Mickey did, he’d get the wig on, stir up a creepy, intense, or wildly goofy expression (you never knew which one he was gonna settle on), and then he’d just sit there on the bed and stare until Mickey opened his eyes. It scared the shit out of him every fucking time, but it always led to laughter and sex, so in the end, those were the best case scenario days.

It was only when Ian would pop out at him, like a total asshole, when he wasn’t expecting it that Mickey genuinely got upset. The first time, he’d accidentally thrown a reflex punch and Ian had looked beyond ridiculous standing there in that terrible black wig, tilting his head back as his nose bled. They’d ended up having angry sex after, and Mickey was afraid that was the bit that had failed to discourage Ian from the sneak wig attacks going forward. Sometimes he would even throw on a fake mustache too. Mickey hated it so much.

He eventually lost count of how many times they’d had wig sex.

It was a real fucking problem.

  


  


  
*****  


**Author's Note:**

> You **are** allowed to leave kudos and comments. 
> 
> I mean, come on. Jeez. 
> 
> My little shunned fic baby.


End file.
